"You do!" She sat up quickly. Her eyes insisted on his reply.
"Do you believe that? Does my life really indicate that to you?"
Her little face was hard. "You do things for me," she contended, "but it's not because you love me!"
His smile faltered. He shrugged wearily. "It would be hopeless for me to attempt to justify myself, Winnie, but for the sake of your health and your baby" (he looked at her straightforwardly) "we must try to overcome this continual bickering."
She looked steadily with her dissolving gaze against his unpenetrated eyes. "Oh, I wish my children didn't belong to you!" she said suddenly.
He glanced away from her. "If I thought you and the children could do without me I might agree to resign my parental rights," he said with a slight sneer.
She pressed her hands together, regarding him in silence. Finally she said, "Oh, I know you'd be glad to!" She was crying soundlessly.
He does not love me.
She felt sorry for herself. She felt the slightness of her body and the fragileness of her bones. She was new and real to herself in her illusion of smallness that made it easier for her to relinquish her pride.
She turned her face from him and lay back on the pillow again. Voluptuously, she was conscious of her weakness. With infinite and exquisite contempt, she loved herself.